Dear Child
by tashasfic
Summary: A Mother's Voice


CENTERDear Child : A Mother's Voice /CENTER  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Men aren't mine.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
She came home from work early that day. She opened the door to be welcomed by the tantalizing smell of her mother's mouthwatering casserole in the oven. She entered the kitchen to ask her mother the question that had been plaguing her mind for sometime. "Where did I come from?" Silence. She repeated the question, but her curiosity remained unsatisfied.  
  
Her father came home from work a little later. They ate their dinner together, like the close-knit family that they were. It was only after their meal, that her mother took out from a draw in her room, a sealed manila envelope, the kind rarely seen now days, and handing it to her daughter, left her to read it's contents in peace.  
  
She tore open the seal, curious, and pulled out the envelope's sparse contents. Gingerly picking up the loose leaves of paper that had fallen out, she slowly began to read, her blue eyes carefully scanning each word, as if to devour the information it gave her, which she craved so much.  
  
"You were born on September 26th," she read. "You were, by far, the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, and we, your father and I, we loved you so much.  
  
It was difficult to have you. Our lives were hectic enough without a baby as it is; but we wanted, and tried for you nonetheless. We were overjoyed when we found out that I was pregnant. We took every caution and prevention imaginable, from Lamaze classes, to watching videos on birthing, to regular visits to the gynecologist. I could have had you at home, quietly in our clandestine clinic. We had trained doctors there, but I chose a hospital. It was a risk, any amount of things could have gone wrong. Now in retrospect as I look back on it, it was probably one of the most careless things I could possibly have done; but I was adamant, and few tried to dissuade me. It was one of the few things I tried, to introduce some shred of normalness into our lives.  
  
You were a complicated birth. The labor pains started around dinnertime. I was rushed to the hospital by your father, our entourage of friends in tow, what a scene we must have made, driving through the streets at breakneck speed, earning ourselves curses and shouts from the various drivers we passed.  
  
Twenty-six and a half hours, a lot of drugs, and a caesarean operation later, you came into this world. It was exactly ten thirty-seven in the night. It wasn't like it is in the movies. I didn't see you and start crying for joy at once. My first thought as I looked over at you was, "did that red, crying thing just come out of me?" I fell straight asleep after that. I was tired, and you needed the immediate attention of the doctor. You weren't the healthiest new born.  
  
It was some hours before they let me hold you in my arms for the first time, and it was love at first sight. You were so perfect. So beautiful. You were your father's image. You had the thick, chestnut brown hair I'd always hoped you'd have, and his crooked smile which I had fallen in love with so many years ago, and seeing it on your small face, just made me love it more. When you finally opened your eyes for the first time, I cried. I couldn't help myself. You had your father's eyes. They were the most breathtaking shade of blue. The kind the sky is on a cloudless summer day. I could finally see his eyes in you. You had granted me my lifelong wish before you were even a day old. How many people can claim to have fulfilled a dream at the age of twelve hours? Is there any doubt that you were special?  
  
The day we took you home, is one that will be forever branded in my memory. In both of our memories. We took you to the mansion first, to show you off. You loved being the center of attention even then. You gurgled and smiled, and within a matter of minutes became a general favorite at the school. The students, the teachers, the Professor, us; you just had to give a single cry, and we'd all obediently come rushing to your side. Even my mother who has never been particularly fond of infants doted upon you, and my father asked to hold you so often, I must admit, that even I felt pangs of jealousy.  
  
Blue for a boy, pink for a girl. We hadn't known which you would be, and we never asked. Your room was an ideal children's nursery, done up in pastel shades. Neutral colors of pail, but cheery sunflower yellow and lilac.  
  
We worked perfectly together as a family, from my waking up at an early hour for your feeding, to your father getting up to gently sing you back to sleep when you, with your erratic sleeping schedule, woke us up at any time, to changing your diapers, to taking you out for a walk in your stroller, and even if we couldn't, there was no lack of volunteers who could.  
  
I think the entire team was ready to worship you once they realized that you were the only person alive who could reduce our fearless leader, to a baby-talking babbler. He loved you so much. We both did, and still do.  
  
Your name was one of the few things we ever disagreed on, regarding you; but then, we only had you for a few months, too short a time to find much to argue about. We compromised in the end, like we always have. You were to bare his surname, and a middle name chosen by him. I got to give you your first name. You were christened Ayesha Hope Summers. You were our hope, and we wanted a life of acceptance for you, the kind we could never have. I wonder what your name is now?  
  
A mother's worst nightmare is that her newborn infant might fall ill, and at the age of five months, one night, you fell violently sick. It was late at night, more early morning infact, and we rushed you to the clinic, where we ran several tests on you. The next day you were transferred to the hospital. You did get better, but your tests confirmed the one thing which most parents crave for their children. You were not a carrier of the X- Gene.  
  
We had discussed what we would do, had you had an uncontrollable power several times, but we had never even considered the possibility, that you might not have the X-Gene at all. It is no great genetic wonder that you don't, if I think about it. If two homo-sapiens can have a homo-superior as their child, then the reverse is equally possible, but it was something we, as parents, hadn't foreseen.  
  
It was the hardest, most difficult decision we ever made, but we finally decided to give you up for adoption. It hurts to know that I'm never going to hear you speak, that I wasn't there to hear your first word, that when you call for "mommy", it wont be me you want. I couldn't take you to your first day of preschool, or help you dress up for your first prom. You'll never learn how to play the guitar from your father, something I know he'd have loved to teach you, or be able to instruct your dates on what time they should bring you home.  
  
We had only two requests. One, that you should be put with a couple who'd love you, and who, as people, would be willing to accept mutants without being blinded by fear; and secondly, that should you ever ask about us, you be given this letter. Your father would have written one as well, but he found it too painful. He says to tell you that he loves you more than life itself, and to let you know, that you were always, and always will be his "angel."  
  
We asked the Professor, our teacher and mentor, to find a new home for you in a different state, where we wouldn't be tempted to continuously see you. We haven't asked where you are, we don't know who your parents are now. In short, we know nothing of you as you are today, or who you have become.  
  
I realize that in your mind, I am not your mother. Another, more fortunate person has been able to fill that role, but just know that I am someone who would do anything to keep you safe.  
  
I will not tell you who I am, who your father is, nor where we live. That would only make you want to seek us out. It was for your own safety that I sent you away before, I don't want to bring you into my chaotic life once again.  
  
I love you, sweetheart."  
  
She silently put the papers back in the envelope. The slightly smudged ink where the writer's tears had fallen on the neatly printed sheets, did not depreciate their value for her in the least, but rather, increased them.  
  
She looked down at the last and final piece of paper. A photograph featuring a young couple stared up at her. The woman's brilliant red hair hung loosely about her shoulders, her green eyes bright with laughter as she leaned against a man with hair that resembled her own in color, and a firm jaw line, that was undoubtedly a mirror image of her own. His sunglasses flashed in the sunlight, as he proudly looked down at the baby swathed in a tiny sweater in his wife's arms.  
  
Uncontrollable tears filled her eyes, blurring the image in front of her, as she recalled the morning's headlines in the newspaper: "Mutant Couple Die In Life Long Campaign For Rights."  
  
Under those meaningless words had been a copy of the same photograph.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Feedback is, as always greatly appreciated.  
  
Note: I hope it's evident to everyone, that Ayesha's parents are Jean and Scott.  
  
Ayesha is, by the way, my own character. 


End file.
